


Dining At The Ritz

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [19]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Do Not Ignore Your Demon, Exhibitionism, Love, Love Bites, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 22:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: The Ritz is always done up to the nines all the way through December. Trees and baubles and tinsel and lights. And, of course, a festive menu that the angel always gushes over. Crowley’s happy enough to sit and watch him indulging himself, but sometimes, even with all of that, there’s a fly in the ointment.In this case, the choir singing in the lobby.





	Dining At The Ritz

**Author's Note:**

> Gingerhaole gets an honourable mention for suggesting hands-free ;) The rest just fell out of my gutter brain.

The Ritz is always done up to the nines all the way through December. Trees and baubles and tinsel and lights. And, of course, a festive menu that the angel always gushes over. Crowley’s happy enough to sit and watch him indulging himself, but sometimes, even with all of that, there’s a fly in the ointment.

In this case, the choir singing in the lobby.

Oh, they’re singing beautifully in crystal tones and perfect harmonies, but if he has to hear another rendition of “Angels from the Realms of Glory”, Crowley is fairly sure he’ll stab himself in both ears with his cutlery. Is there a right spoon for that? Probably. Right spoons for everything else.

Doesn’t help that Aziraphale is discussing the new menu with an excitable young waiter, who is flirting a little more than is probably permitted by the HR regulations. Crowley watches , drumming his fingers on the edge of the table.

Normally, Aziraphale would’ve noticed he was on edge.

Normally, he’d’ve done something divinely subtle like switching to the next track as if the choir were a jukebox he controlled.

Normally doesn’t count when they have apparently branched out into a particularly delightful kind of new spiced tart that sounds oh so appealing if you’re a food-loving angel who will try anything once.

The waiter bends a little closer, running his finger down the menu and Crowley glowers.

Oh, it’s _on_.

All it takes is the flick of a finger and a ripple of sensation ran the length of Aziraphale’s leg. The angel jolts slightly, blinking, then gives the boy another of those smiles that suggests far more than the angel ever realises.

Crowley fixes his eyes on Aziraphale’s face and slowly spreads his fingers on the table cloth and lets the ripple of it carry beneath the table and intimately high on Aziraphale’s thigh. He half-expects the angel to jump again, but aside from a flush blooming across his cheeks, he keeps on talking amiably to the waiter.

_Fine_.

He presses his fingers a little harder and this time, Aziraphale’s breath hitches. He clears his throat, shifts on his chair, and – oh Hell – parts his legs beyond the bounds of respectability. And still, he doesn’t look around from the waiter. A challenge. Or, probably more accurately, a dare. There’s a curve to his lip that isn’t about food and Crowley has to stifle the sound that rises in his own throat.

He moves his hand minutely, but the motion is nowhere near as subtle beneath the table.

Aziraphale sits up a little straighter, taking a deep breath and releasing it. “I think that’ll be all, my dear,” he says to the waiter, his voice admirably steady. He gives back the menu and folds his hands neatly – demurely – on the table. As soon as the waiter is out of earshot, he murmurs – without so much as a look Crowley’s way – “Bored, darling?”

Among other things.

“He was flirting with you,” Crowley says, taking the knife in his hand and running two fingers slowly up and down the handle.

“I hardly noticed,” the angel replies virtuously, though his foot skitters on the floor, the flush deepening across his cheeks. His knuckles are a little whiter too and he darts out his tongue. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to stop.”

One side of Crowley’s mouth curls. “I don’t suppose you want me to.”

The flush is a full-blown blush now. “It’s very…”

“Filthy?” Crowley purrs, as he stutters his thumb up the handle of the knife.

“Unseemly,” Aziraphale retorts, his voice beautifully breathless. “We’re in _public_.”

“I know.” Crowley leans a little closer, devil’s smile on his lips, temptation dripping from every syllable on his tongue. “And if you’re _very _good, angel, they’ll never know, will they?”

Those lovely eyes, a little glassy and far darker than usual, finally find his. “If I’m good?” he echoes, as if his hips aren’t twitching against the plush cushioned chair.

“Mm.” A double tap of Crowley’s fingers to the table top makes Aziraphale jolt as if stung by an electric charge, a small, almost silent “oh!” escaping him. “Can’t let the humans know, can we? Can’t make them jealous, can we? And if you’re _very_ good and _very_ quiet, I’ll make sure you get rewarded for your good behaviour.”

The angel is already breathing a little harder, but Crowley can see the effort he’s exerting to do as he’s told. “You’re… you wicked tempter…”

“Could tell me to stop,” Crowley points out innocently, as his fingers move in patterns that make Aziraphale briefly squeeze his eyes closed. Angels don’t generally need to sweat, but right now, there are tiny drops beading on his brow. “I will, you know. If you want me to.” He lifts his other hand to cup his chin, fighting his grin. “But I think you’re enjoying this. Knowing how much you’re getting out of me and no one being any the wiser. Right under their noses. You _like_ it.”

Aziraphale unfolds and refolds his hands, his hips slowly rocking. No one else would notice, not with the length of Aziraphale’s coat hiding his body, but Crowley notices and Crowley presses a little harder, a little further, and Aziraphale – oh, he’s _very_ good.

He even manages a flustered smile for the waiter when the young man returns with the tea pot. He even tries to pour, though the spout rattles on the rim of the cup and tea sloshes into the saucer as Crowley applies a particularly warm flicker of pressure.

“Crowley!” The angel looks chagrined. “Not the tea!”

Unable to hide his grin, Crowley obligingly lifts his hand from the table and Aziraphale hastily pours two cups, pushing one towards him. Perhaps it _is_ a little much, but he wraps his empty hand around the warm china. Aziraphale – cup quaking in his hands – smothers a moan with a sigh of pleasure over the tea. Anyone who heard would be very sure that the gentleman was… really enjoying his tea.

“Any good?” Crowley asks, all innocence.

“Mm.” Aziraphale darts his tongue along his lips then takes another cautious sip.

And Crowley ruins it by dipping his fingertip into his own tea and makes certain Aziraphale regrets his choice of effort at once by sucking his finger into the heat of his mouth, licking the hot liquid from his fingertip. Aziraphale’s teeth cut into his lip and he sets his cup – rattling – into his saucer.

Crowley chuckles in delight. “Never thought this’d be your kind of thing,” he says in a low, teasing voice, returning his hand to close around the long, polished handle of the knife. It slips and slides slowly against his palm and he curls his fingers just so. “Naughty angel.”

Eyes darker and hooded fix on his face. “I’ve been hiding in plain sight with you for centuries, my love,” he breathes, his palms pressing to the edge of the table. “This is… expanding on our common theme.”

The way he says it, the way he looks, makes something hot and pleasant curl up under Crowley’s breast. He moves his hand a little faster, using his other hand to steady the knife in his grip. Aziraphale’s fingertips are whitening by the second, pressing hard against the table. Small, controlled, almost pained sounds are hitching in his every breath and he bows his head, eyes pressing shut.

“Good, angel,” Crowley breathes, watching him, heart thundering, his own hunger rising. “You’re doing so well. Fuck, you sound amazing…” His head is spinning, giddy with it. Aziraphale coming undone at his… well, technically if not actually his hand, right here, biting his lip to messes to do as he’s told, obeying and indulging and Christ it’s–

Aziraphale goes tense with a sharp explosive gasp and Crowley is so caught up in the angel’s senses that the backwash almost knocks him back, gasping, in his own chair. Tingles of pleasure wash through him. Christ, an angel’s bliss is a powerful thing.

The angel is still breathing a little harder than usual, head bowed, hands folded together again, when the waiter returns with the first part of his order. He doesn’t even glance up.

Crowley can’t help himself, putting a finger to his lips, and says – _sotto voce_ – to the boy. “He’s giving thanks.”

Despite his down-turned, pink-cheeked face, Crowley can still see the twitch of the angel’s lips.

Little by little, he lifts his head as the waiter hurries off, then makes a minute gesture with one hand. No doubt cleaning himself up. “That was…”

“New?” Crowley suggests, propping his elbow on the table and cupping his chin, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Invigorating? Exciting? Definitely gave me a bit of a tingle, I don’t mind telling you.”

Aziraphale gives him that haughty look that is always, always undercut by his desperately smothered smirk. “Messy.”

Crowley laughs, slouching back in his chair. “Well, yeah. Obviously. I mean, you picked what we were working with. Can’t blame me for that.”

Aziraphale demurely picked up his fork, scooping up a dab of whatever the hell it is they’ve dolloped onto his plate. He tastes it, then scoops up a little more and proffers it to Crowley. “I do so like to try new things, don’t you?”

Crowley grins at him, leaning forward and trying a mouthful. It’s some kind of fruit, but there’s a sharpness to it that says vinegar and he rolls it around on his tongue a few times, taking in all the flavours and textures. “I can think of better things to use my mouth for.”

Aziraphale’s lips narrow to that line that say he’s amused, but is not about to show it. “I imagine you can,” he says, adding a scoop of some frothy white cream-like mess to the red. It’s all very festive. Or homicidal now that it’s all smeared all over the plate. 

Maybe it’s pushing his luck, but that bloody choir has moved onto Hark the Sodding Herald Angels, and Crowley is in the wrong kind of mood for listening to Christmas carols.

So he leans forward. “What if I told you I’m hungry?”

The angel raises his eyebrows. “Then I’d suggest you get something to eat?”

Crowley slips his glasses a little lower, meeting the angel’s eyes, then glancing pointedly downward.

“Oh.” The colour returns, turning Aziraphale’s face a more festive shade. “Oh!” He clears his throat again. “Darling, _really_…”

“Don’t you want your reward for your good behaviour?” Crowley says, a little mournful. “After all, you did so well. It would be a shame if you didn’t get a treat.”

“But someone might _see_,” Aziraphale protests, though there’s a half-hearted note that speaks of how very tempted he is. “And it’s such a messy business…”

“That,” Crowley says, propping elbow on table and chin in hand, “all depends on the apparatus, doesn’t it?” He nods downwards. “Slip into a skirt and let me take care of the rest.”

Aziraphale is still beautifully red-faced. “You _can’t_ be serious.”

Crowley pointedly wipes a smear of Aziraphale’s fruity mousse from his lip and licks it off his fingertip. “S’up to you, angel.”

“No!” Aziraphale says, fixing his eyes on his plate. “No, thank you!”

Crowley shrugs, sprawling back in his chair. Totally coincidental that his leg stretches out and his ankle rests just enough against Aziraphale’s to make sure the angel is well aware of his presence. “Fair enough,” he says with all the virtue of the serpent of Eden holding out an apple.

To Aziraphale’s credit, he manages to get all the way through the main, though he only does so by pointedly focussing all of his attention on his meal. There is a particular precision about him when he’s trying very hard to behave himself. Crowley watches, knowing, grinning, as portions are halved, then quartered, then divided into neat little eighths before consumption.

Times like this, Crowley knows not to make conversation. The angel’s mind will be running off down tracks laid out by Crowley. He’s an easy mark, the angel. He likes what he likes and sees no reason to resist it, no matter how much he tries to insist he’s well-behaved.

Well-behaved angels don’t stop Armageddon. Well-behaved angels don’t set up house with a demon. Well-behaved angels definitely don’t perform a miracle that makes their formal trousers shift into a more… accessible flowing skirt that spills over their lover’s ankle.

Aziraphale darts a flustered look at him.

Crowley raises his eyebrows.

The angel’s tongue darts along his lips in a way that has nothing to do with the dessert laid before him and nods.

It’s like a hot burning surge of… something in Crowley’s middle, knowing Aziraphale wants him so much, wants what he can give and do and offer so much he would risk embarrassment and mortification for it. He reaches for the angel’s nearest hand, catches it, kisses it, then slithers beneath the table, drawing a bubble of privacy around them. Not that Aziraphale will know about it, not yet. If his beloved angel wants to engage in some casual exhibitionism, then he will.

There’s plenty of room beneath the table and Crowley is a flexible creature by nature, so for a moment, he only curls there, admiring the fall of Aziraphale’s skirts – they look heavy, almost Edwardian – and the very deliberate way the toetips of his brogues are inching further and further apart.

It seems like the perfect time to take things slow, pushing up the heavy skirts and inch at a time. His palms graze Aziraphale’s calves, fingers tracing the line of his sock garters that look adorably ridiculous under the layer of petticoats. There are footsteps approaching and Crowley hears the rattle of the dessert cart.

Oh, angel…

When the waiter speaks, his voice a low hum muffled by the tablecloth, Crowley applies lips to warm skin, nipping the curve of Aziraphale’s calf. The angel’s voice catches and he coughs so very deliberately that Crowley grins and this time, he licks. And when Aziraphale’s leg jerks against him, he moves up a little and curls his hand around to caress that sensitive smooth skin at the back of his knee.

The chair leg scrapes on the floor and Aziraphale’s laugh is a little higher and more forced than usual, but he stretches out his leg all the same in invitation, and Crowley coils like the serpent he is and latches his mouth to that delightfully sensitive flesh, drawing sharply, sharp enough to mark.

Something thumps on the table, making the dishes rattle.

“Hiccups!” Aziraphale lies as Crowley grins and licks slow patterns against the beautiful blossoming bruise. “Some water, I’ll be fine.”

“Liar,” Crowley breathes on his skin, modulating a certain power so his words pour straight into the angel’s ear. He nibbles his way high, pushing Aziraphale’s skirts further, over plump, soft, invitingly splayed thighs. “Naughty…” He leaves little rosettes of punishing reward as he goes. “Wicked…” Each one is dark and vivid and the cutlery is rattling on the table. “Sexy…”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice is barely a breath, but only fair that they can hear one another.

Crowley smiles as he reaches the juncture of Aziraphale’s thighs. “See you went for the messy option again,” he murmurs, nuzzling the front of Aziraphale’s hideously outdated drawers. The angel’s arousal is straining against the fiddly little buttons and Crowley cuts out the middleman – or the middleknickers – with a snap of his fingers.

“Christ,” Aziraphale yips in his ear.

Crowley props his arms on Aziraphale’s spread thighs and runs his thumb from Aziraphale’s balls all the way to the end of his erection. “You seem excited, love,” he says, amused. “Your _cock_ is ready and waiting.”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale hisses. “Don’t call it that.”

Crowley leans closer and curls his tongue around it and once more, the crockery jumps on the tabletop. “Mm.” He lets his tongue divide, flickering in the way that always makes his angel squirm, then rubs his cheek against the angel. “How’s dessert?”

“Wh-what?”

“Dessert.” Crowley takes a moment to swallow him to the root, earning another of those beautifully strangled moans. He lifts his lips away again and sighs, warm breath gusting on damp skin. “I thought you might enjoy this more if you had something in your mouth as well.”

“Oh _Lord_...” the angel almost whimpered. “Crowley…”

Crowley grins, sudden and wicked. “Do what I do, angel. See who enjoys it more.” And with that, he drew his hand up Aziraphale’s length and lowered his head to lick, flickering fluttering darts of his tongue, as if tasting the sweetest of cream. Above him, a fork scraped on a plate, and he licked more greedily, slowly moving his hand.

“That’s…” Aziraphale’s voice is thick and his mouth is full. “That’s _lovely_, darling…”

Crowley gave his thigh a squeeze. “Careful, angel,” he says with teasing concern. “I wouldn’t want you to choke on your… food…” And his head is down again and Aziraphale’s hips jump so hard against his lips that he very nearly fails to heed his own advice. He replaces mouth with hand briefly to catch his breath.

Still, he has dealt with Aziraphale’s eagerness in many things and by the time he’s done, Aziraphale won’t even _remember_ what flavour the damned tart was.

“You– you oughtn’t–”

Crowley turns his head to place a stinging bite on the angel’s thigh and the clatter of the fork tells him it’s a job done. He bites again, then blows soft and cool on the wet skin. “You’re delicious, angel,” he growls, nibbling his way back to the demanding cock, throbbing hotly against his palm. “I’d have you on that table if you’d let me. Eat you alive, I would.”

“Fuck…” Aziraphale keens.

That’s my angel, Crowley exults, opening his mouth and swallowing him down again. He pins the angel’s hips still, holding him, restraining him, because it’s his performance, his indulgence, and he laughs hot and throaty as Aziraphale’s feet slither against the floor and plump thighs squeeze his sides and Aziraphale’s clutching the table so hard that everything is rattling.

“Crowley… oh _Lord_…” The table jerks with a thump. The chair legs are scratching against the floor. Irresistible angelic force against immovable demonic object. _Sorry, angel. My game, my rules._

Crowley bobs his head, widening his jaw, swallowing again, deeper, humming around Aziraphale’s cock, his fingers grabbing the angel’s plump thighs and squeezing to the point of beautiful aching bruises. Oh, he’s going to remember this little pre-Christmas luncheon. He’s going to wear the marks of it for days and Crowley knows – oh, Christ how he _knows_ – Aziraphale will adore every one of them. He’ll stand in front of his mirror. He’ll preen. He’ll caress them. Marks of adoration. Marks of love. Marks of possession.

“Please…” The angel’s litany is an urgent whisper in his ears. “Please, please, please…” 

Hand joins mouth and Crowley worships him with lips and palms. _Ha. Holy palmer’s kiss indeed_. He hears the rustle of cloth a second before a hand is in his hair, fisting, twisting and sending stars behind his eyes. His world is reduces to Aziraphale on all sides, in him, holding him, all around him, smothering and delicious and drowning and he sinks onto him, drinking him in as Aziraphale’s hips twitch free and his mouth is salt and heat and perfect.

“Lord…” Aziraphale is breathing hard, words like honey in his ear. “That… oh Lord…”

Crowley’s mouth is still full and wet and he sucks and licks and suck, his jaw aching deliciously, then lifts his head away and places his lips against the plump swell of Aziraphale’s belly, just below his navel, and suck a beautiful mark there too, dark and ruddy and smeared with the stains from his lips.

And then, only then, does he burrow his face into that warm soft belly and hum with contentment.

The hand in his hair loosens, caresses, curling gently to stroke his cheek.

“Thank you, my love.”

Crowley smiles, kissing the angel’s fingers. He’s feeling a lot better already.

He doesn’t move at once, comfortably tucked between the angel’s legs, a soft belly under his cheek. It’s only when Aziraphale withdraws his hand that Crowley reluctantly slithers back out from beneath the table, settling back into a chair that isn’t half as comfortable as his one below.

Aziraphale is still pink-cheeked, smiling, eyes bright and warm. “You did it again, didn’t you?”

“Hm?” Crowley makes a show of picking up a napkin and dabbing at his mouth, admiring the way Aziraphale rolls his eyes and tries not to grin like an idiot.

“Shielded us from prying eyes,” the angel clarifies. “I should have realised you would.” He pushes a small plate across the table towards Crowley. “This is for you,” he says mischievously, “since you’ve worked up quite the appetite.”

Crowley stares at it. It’s the damned tart, the one Aziraphale and the waiter had been gushing over, and Aziraphale is watching him with a hopeful expression on his face. He gives the angel a half-smile. Might as well indulge him.

And from the first bite, he understands why.

Aziraphale never wanted the tart for himself. It has all the sweetness and sharpness and spice and every flavour that Crowley actually likes in a single pastry case, somehow blended perfectly without being overpowering. It is in fact the perfect spiced tart and he’s three bites in before he notices the even smugger expression slipping onto the angel’s face.

He pokes out his cream-coated tongue, flickering it. “You still taste better,” he says.

Aziraphale laughs, pinking all over again. “Oh, do shut up and put something else in your mouth, dear boy.”

Crowley can’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. He reaches over, catching the angel’s hand, and squeezes it.

“Good lunch?” Aziraphale suggests, eyes dancing.

“Fucking good lunch,” Crowley agrees, leaning closer and sharing a little of the taste of cream with his angel.


End file.
